


lips of honey

by KaleidoKai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28094628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaleidoKai/pseuds/KaleidoKai
Summary: “A thousand stories, she had told him. A thousand heroes in a thousand lifetimes -But this tale of theirs, he knows, is her favourite one.”or Arya loves her legends and Gendry loves listening to them.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 21
Kudos: 99





	lips of honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blacksmithgendry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksmithgendry/gifts).



> Hello everyone! 
> 
> I’ve recently started doing commissions to help make ends meet, and this here is for the ever-fabulous blacksmithgendry! ❤️
> 
> It’s been a while since I’ve done anything for Gendrya, so this was super fun and I hope you enjoy the shameless, shameless fluff :) 
> 
> Happy reading, folks!

He watches her. He can’t help it. 

She is sitting on the table next to him, ankles crossed, looking relaxed as she flicks through a book. Her fingers are tapping a soft rhythm on the cover and he feels the echo in his heart. The starts of a smile are edging her mouth, making his stomach quiver. 

Today, he will finally talk to the pretty girl in the coffee shop he’s been staring at for the last few weeks. 

"What are you reading?" he asks lightly, a torrent of butterflies whirling in his chest. It must be one of her favourites; he’s seen her read the book about a million times. 

She glances at him briefly, darling silver eyes resting on his face for a beat before turning away. “Just some history,” she says, noncommittal. He sees colour rise in her cheeks, and for a second, he is startled at the race of his heart and sweaty palms. This is their first conversation and he is already unravelling. 

"That - that’s cool," he stutters. For some reason, his mouth isn’t working properly around her. “What about?” 

She blushes prettily. "Just some old queen," she tells him, playing delicately with the corner of a page. “Nymeria of the Rhoyne. She’s a hero of mine.” 

He is quiet, watching her read. (He could do this for hours, he thinks.) 

She suddenly looks up, putting the book down eagerly. “Did you know she was a warrior too? She saved her people from war by sailing to a foreign land on ten _thousand_ ships. Isn’t that incredible? Did you know she survived over a _dozen_ assassination attempts, rebellions, even invasions? Gods, what a woman!” She laughs. Her eyes are sparkling like a sea of galaxies. 

He listens, half in love and drowning in starlight already. 

Her face dims quickly. "Oh, sorry," she whispers, looking at him sheepishly. "Didn’t mean to ramble. I get a little excited sometimes.” She picks up her forgotten tea and opens the book again.

He watches her read for a few more minutes before he notices her eyes stop darting back and forth across the page. "Do you want to hear some more?" she asks, almost hopeful. 

"I'd like that," he says. “I’m Gendry, by the way.” 

He swears she smiles. “Arya.”   
  


oOo

“I don’t understand. What’s so great about a song?” 

She sighs softly. "It isn’t just _any_ song, Gendry, it’s _the_ song.” As if that is all the explanation he needs. But then she smiles.

"Let's try this," she says, and she scrambles behind him, leaning against the oak tree in a meadow filled with roses. 

He’s quite sure he can’t breathe when she puts her small hands over his eyes.

"Just listen," she tells him, and he can feel her breath. Glorious shivers run down his spine.

She starts to sing - or rather, she starts to shout in something that could be called a melody. He has no idea what she's saying – she told him that it was some great song of legend about ice and fire, and that it was very famous historically, that it was Jon’s favourite. That it was very, very beautiful. 

Now she's shouting all around him, sounds and words that make no sense but are the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard.

Her body is pressed up against his, her breath and her voice hot against his skin. Suddenly, he can't help it. He rolls over and presses his lips to hers.

Her eyes close immediately, her tongue meeting his. In such moments of possession, little else seems real: the world takes on vague lines that are punctuated by adoring detail: the sun is important for nothing but the halo it throws around her face, the wind all but a sweet caress against their backs. 

Half their clothes are on the ground, his hands sliding over her skin with wickedness, with tender finesse. They brush against one another, exploring, testing, discovering, skin on slick skin, her breath harsh in her throat, his ragged against her breast. She presses her palms flat against his back, legs entwined, their bodies moving in a careless, easy motion, her dazzling, dazzling eyes half-lowered and darkly glazed. 

When they are sticky and spent, lying spreadeagled against the grass and catching their bearings, he murmurs, "I think I understand now.” 

She rolls her eyes with a laugh, biting her lip with a smile. "Just don't tell this part to Jon.”

  
oOo

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, wrapped in her warmth and the hushed whispers of midnight.

His heart breaks, just a little (or a lot), when she shakes her head and burrows deeper into his arms, her lips trembling. “He’s gone. What else is there to say?” 

He has always loved the long mouth that smiles so easily, more easily than he does. He doesn’t tell her that when she talks to him, rambles on about something of the past, sometimes he forgets about what she is saying, and stares at the deep, clear grey of her eyes like a lovesick fool. He knows, too, just how her dark hair slides under her fingers, how long it takes to trace each of the curls and tangles trapped in it. He knows each ridge of her face, all fine bones and straight nose, knows the smell of her that lingers on his pillow.

He likes to think he knows her heart, and when it’s breaking. 

"Jon will be back soon," he says hurriedly. “He just...needs to find himself. And when he does, he’ll come home.” 

It stings to wipe tears for another man off the face he holds so dear. A reminder that there will always be a piece of her beyond his reach. But he is Gendry and she is Arya and he will cherish whatever part of her she gives, whenever she chooses to give. 

“Did I tell you about Daenerys and Astapor?” she asks suddenly, rubbing her eyes. 

He shakes his head and she launches into a tale he knows to be about one of her favourite childhood heroes. Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons freeing thousands of slaves and bringing justice upon the unjust. “And she did it all at fourteen. She was someone incredible." It's her distracted-because-I'm-telling-a-story voice; always a little in love, always a little sad, always a little mystified, always a little excited.

"So are you," he whispers too quietly. He is an utter fool for her, a hopeless fool, and he always has been. 

She has shadows under her eyes. When she had knocked on his door tearfully and he’d held her in his arms, she'd been so light. So fragile, as if a single breath would shatter her into a thousand fragments. 

She looks up at him, her eyes exhausted and terrified and honest. "What if he doesn’t come home? What if he decides he doesn’t need us - need _me_ \- anymore?” 

His heart breaks a lot now. "Hey," he says, pressing her into him more firmly. "Why don’t you tell me a little more about Daenerys? So she freed some slaves, huh?” 

Her face lights up, the cracks in her eyes beginning to heal – finally – and he wants to cry with happiness.

"That’s only the beginning of what she did," she starts, settling back against the pillows. "You know, I wanted to be her when I was little," she says with a yawn. “Pretended I had dragons and saved the world and everything.” 

"Yeah? And now?" He’s not quite sure why he asks this; not certain why the words tumble out of his mouth, but he’s desperate to chase her darkness away, even for a moment. 

His heart lifts when she smiles. "Now, I'm happy being Arya. Just Arya."

He takes her hand and holds her close. For hours.

Until they both fall asleep.

  
oOo

"I didn't think– "

She cuts him off mid-shout. "That's right, Gendry. You didn’t _think_.” 

He clenches his jaw.

"Edric is just a friend! We work together! How could you even imagine that I might - that _we_ might - it’s _ridiculous!_ ” She is yelling now, her face red, her hair and hands flying everywhere, making her small frame look larger. "You have _no_ right to be so - so stupid!" She punctuates this with a stab to his chest by her tiny finger.

"Gods, Arya! Can't you see?" he shouts back, taking her wrists so she doesn't hit him again. He wants her to hug him, to kiss him, to tell him another story. 

"See _what?_ " She's livid, her eyes flashing dangerously, challenging him to tame the storm. 

"You’re so easy to fall for!" Her brows knit together. "You're funny. And beautiful. _Beautiful,_ okay?"

He can see understanding dawn on her. 

"You're so smart. And kind. And brave. Any man would want you, Arya." He’s quiet now, her wrists lowered. At some point, he takes her hands. "I still don’t know why you’re with me. Why you’d choose me when you have the world at your feet.” 

Her face falls, and she takes a step closer to you. "Oh Gendry," she whispers, "how could I _not_ choose you?" She brings her hand to his cheek. He feels himself melt at her touch. "We’re made for each other, you and I," she murmurs, a smile tugging at her lips. “Like Orys and Argella. You’re a king amongst men. Surely, you know that.” 

He breathes. He kisses her. "I love you."

She rolls her eyes. She meets his lips gently, then eagerly, on her tiptoes. "I love you, too."

oOo

He gets back late.

He can recognise her little sobs from the kitchen, and he rushes to their room. She's sitting up, curled on the bed, her cheeks wet. She's weeping. A book is open, face-down on the comforter.

"Hey, Arya, it's okay. It's okay, my love," he whispers, taking her into his arms. He brushes her away from her face and presses light kisses against her cold forehead. She looks at him with a sadness as great as the stars blooming overhead.

"Danny Flint had such a sad life," she whispers, her breaths rapid. 

"Arya," he tries. She won't meet his eyes. "Arya, love, just breathe. It’s alright.” 

He says this over and over again, calmly and softly reassuring, coaxing her back into bed.

“It’s not fair,” she mumbles into her pillow. “Danny didn’t let anyone tell her what to do because she was a girl and she chased her own dreams and...and she _suffered_ for it. How is that fair, Gendry?” 

He suspects this is no longer about some long-dead girl, but he does not say, focusing on rubbing soothing circles on her back. 

She doesn't talk much more and she sobs at random intervals, always mumbling about Danny Flint, and soon, she is fast asleep, tears pooling beside her bed and her sadness hanging delicately in the air like mist. 

She wakes him in the morning. "Sorry I freaked out on you. I had another fight with my mother yesterday." Her hair – shorter and calmer, now, more grown up, is sticking up everywhere.

"Yeah, I figured," he says, pulling her close. "You were very sad about Danny Flint.” 

He can tell she wants to cry and laugh at the same time.

He smiles, moving her chin up so she meets his eyes. "But _you_ aren’t Danny Flint. Remember that.”   
  


oOo

  
"Ugh, I feel like death," she says, shuffling out to the couch. She has on his dressing gown and a pair of sweatpants. If she wasn't sick, he’s pretty sure he’d fuck her then and there, because it's so adorable.

Her hair is everywhere at once and her entire nose is red.

"Let me just go pick something up at the pharmacy. You’ll feel better then."

She shakes her head, plopping down on the couch, appearing completely exhausted from the trek from their bedroom down the hall. "I can beat this stupid cold without medicine, Gendry. But thanks anyway.” She snuggles in beside him, resting her head against his shoulder drowsily. “Have I told you about the Grey King of the Iron Islands who wed a mermaid?” 

She doesn’t wait for a response, already embarking on an outlandish story of a man who tamed the winter seas and slew dragons of fire. He can see her floating amongst the waves, riding high on the crests of a world long-forgotten, kept alive on the tongue of this dazzling girl. 

He leans down and kisses her in the middle of her sentence. She smiles up at him.

"Marry me," he says. The words are a waterfall past his lips.

Her eyes grow huge and then small and then huge again. He is shocked that he asked too, much too shocked to move. Or breathe. Or think. The smile slides off her face.

And then back on. "Okay."

"Okay?"

She grins. _"You can be my forest love, and me your forest lass,"_ she says in a rush.

He can't breathe.

She sighs with a laugh. "It's one of the songs," she tells him, her eyes beginning to glisten, “from long ago. My favourite, actually.” 

"Oh." It's the only sound he is capable of making.

She kisses him. "It means yes. Trust me."

  
oOo

  
They had been young then, and full of the follies of youth. The possibilities had been endless; the world paused on its axis as gracefully as a dancer waiting for the beat. And in an instance of unknowing grace, everything had changed, and thousands of kisses would bloom between them: sweet and slow and warm and firm and light and needing. A tangle of lips and teeth and sighs against the skin. 

Now they are growing old, and in their ageing shells, they feel themselves diminish with each day that passes, whispers of their soul fading with each drawn breath. 

"I think I’ve run out of stories to tell you," she murmurs. A thin blue glow begins at the base of the sky, as breathtaking and boundless as her smile, wrinkled and frail as it is. 

"I don’t think so," he says mildly. “You haven’t finished the best one, yet.” 

“And which one is that?” She leans tiredly against an old oak tree in a meadow of blooming roses, breathing in the sweet summer air.

He reaches out and holds her hand lightly in his, giving her a sly wink. 

She scoffs fondly. “Cheeseball.” 

He gives a one-shouldered shrug. "What's a good story but a thousand perfect moments strung together?"

She doesn’t look towards the dawn, she doesn’t watch the ending of this chapter in their history. Instead, she kisses him, and the world will change to lush forests filled with bastard knights and warrior maidens, because that is what he always thinks of when they kiss.

It will be beautiful. As it always was. 

A thousand stories, she had told him. A thousand heroes in a thousand lifetimes -

But this tale of theirs, he knows, is her favourite one. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re interested in commissioning me, please see some more deetz here: 
> 
> https://aegon.tumblr.com/post/627920236666077184/writing-commissions
> 
> And as always, I’d love to hear your thoughts! ❤️❤️


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